


You, considerate hunter

by green_violin_bow



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous misuse of Russian literature, Happy Ending, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Premature Ejaculation, Top!Illya, and not successful, bottom!Solo, but honestly they're just learning what they like, by an OC, in the context of a spy mission, it is coercive rather than violent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 04:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17358905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: On the Orient Express to Istanbul, Napoleon discovers that Peril has some very interesting reading habits.





	You, considerate hunter

Gaby is gone; she betrayed them. They’re alone, and Napoleon can’t move. And Peril – _Illya_ – is there, in the chair, jaw clenched stubbornly against the screams that want to rise, want to burst from his throat as he shakes uncontrollably, wracked again and again by electricity because somehow, this time, the glitch is fixed –

He finds his voice, and even though it’s useless, he screams Peril’s name – _Illya, Illya, Illya_ –

He wakes with a hand pressed tight over his mouth, fighting panic. He feels again the iron grip of electricity around his heart as he fails to breathe.

It’s not the worst torture he has experienced. Merely the latest.

“Cowboy, Cowboy – silence – you must not –” but Illya’s voice sounds strange; fearful. “My name. Too loud,” he hisses. There’s a beat of silence in the dark. Slowly, Napoleon starts to pick out details in the tiny sliver of moonlight that sways irregularly from behind the blind. Rumpled blond hair falling forward over a worried frown; blue eyes, pale and tired, darkly shadowed; sparse hairs scattered across a pale, muscled chest.

Napoleon lets himself go limp against the mattress, consciously relaxing his muscles. He takes a long, shuddering breath through the fingers clasped across his mouth.

Slowly, the fingers lift, a little at first, as though testing the likelihood of his screaming again.

“Nightmare. Sorry.” Napoleon hates his voice: small and closed in the darkness, not his usual debonair tone by a mile.

“You said my name, many times. I am nightmare?”

Napoleon can hear the subtle deadpan behind which the Russian’s humour always hides.

“You know that, Peril.” His voice is better, this time; quiet, in deference to the thin wooden wall between their compartment and the next, but not hushed by fear.

There is a light breath in the darkness that – Napoleon realises – is what passes for a laugh, with Illya.

Napoleon sighs. “Do you mind if I put my light on?” He can feel the nightmare lurking at the edges of his consciousness, ready to engulf him again when he succumbs to sleep.

“You need to rest, Cowboy. Need to be alert during the day.”

Napoleon struggles for something to say; an explanation. He can’t think of anything that won’t sound irredeemably childish or, more likely, cowardly.

The thought of sinking back into the nightmare makes his breath draw shallow.

There’s movement next to him, in the dark; and the Russian reaches down the thin mattress from the top bunk, his blankets and his pillow.

“What’s this? A slumber party?” asks Napoleon, because he’s too surprised for anything but cheap shots.

The Russian does not reply. He simply makes up his bed on the floor of the compartment, next to Napoleon’s bunk. He lies down, drawing the covers up over his shoulders.

“Peril?”

“Cowboy.” He sounds guarded, holding back any proper response, holding back from their usual bickering exchange.

Napoleon has a quiet realisation, in the darkness. “Do you…do you have nightmares sometimes, too?”

It’s several moments before Peril replies. “Sometimes.” He sounds clipped, almost angry; and Napoleon understands that it’s a defence.

For a while there is silence, apart from their breathing.

“I was in nightmare,” says Peril, at last. It’s a question, even though it doesn’t sound like one.

“You got the pleasure of the chair, this time.” Napoleon says it before he’s thought it through, honesty overtaking him in the false intimacy of the swaying, rhythmic darkness. He presses his lips together, regretting his words. He knows well that Peril will think him a soft American coward.

“Even in dreams you torture me, Cowboy.”

Napoleon smiles, grateful beyond measure. “Can’t resist, Peril.” After a minute, he adds, “you can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“Exactly the same as bunk. More leg room.”

Napoleon doesn’t want Peril to go back up into his bunk. They’re not at eye level, like this; but he’s close all the same, close enough to touch, to make sure he’s really here. A flash, suddenly, of the same relief he’d felt seeing Peril appear in the window of the torture room –

He breathes through the intensity of his relief, and lets it go. “Worst floor you’ve ever slept on?” he asks, lightly.

Peril is silent for a few moments, and Napoleon wonders if he’s already asleep. “Not floor. Standing up, against cold wall. Too many rats on floor.”

Napoleon grimaces. “I’ve kipped on my feet a few times, too.”

“And you?” Peril’s accent is heavy, his voice slow with tiredness. “Worst floor?”

“Prison.” Even the single word feels heavy, hard to push out into the dark. “Solitary confinement,” he adds, after a minute.

“You do not make life easy for yourself, Cowboy.”

“Does that make me less of a bourgeois capitalist pig?” he asks, with half a smile.

“No.” But Napoleon can hear the deadpan again. Then, “prison was worse than anything in CIA?”

“I mostly didn’t sleep during the worst things in the CIA.”

“Hm.” It’s a small acknowledgement. “You were in prison for three years, before…”

“Yes.” Napoleon rolls onto his back, staring up at the wooden base of the bunk above him, everything outlined in cold shades of silver and black as the train sways over points. The blind swings back and forth.

“Loss of personal liberty.” Peril says the words carefully, as though they might bite.

“You don’t agree.” Privately, Napoleon wonders at the dark’s ability to strip away boundaries; to make possible this hushed, private conversation.

“We are not brought up to value the personal, Cowboy.”

_You let me see you in that shaving mirror, reaching for your gun. You gave me time for one last trick; or time to defend myself. You burnt the tape with me._

“Well, as you so concisely pointed out, my personal liberty has limits.”

Peril does not reply. Perhaps he is thinking about the things Napoleon had said in that first conversation, too. How does it align, the love of family honour and the renunciation of the personal?

“Gaby adjusts to the mission?” Peril’s voice is warm.

Napoleon turns on his side, facing the wall. “I’ll tell her to come and see you tomorrow, Peril.”

When he slides back into sleep, he doesn’t dream; or if he does, he doesn’t remember.

*

In the morning, Peril is already awake when Napoleon’s alarm rings, his bedding returned to the top bunk. He is reading at the tiny desk in the corner, long legs folded uncomfortably beneath it. He’s wearing poorly-cut grey trousers and his black turtleneck, and Napoleon has a sudden memory of that pale muscled chest in the silver-blue darkness.

Napoleon sits on the edge of his bunk and stretches, then stands. He makes his bed with the neatness he learned in the army.

“Did you sleep at all, Peril?” he asks, collecting his washkit from the drawer next to his bunk.

“Yes.”

There’s no further reply, and Napoleon shuts himself in the bathroom for a terribly underpressured shower and a fastidious shave. When he emerges, suited in dove-grey – without the jacket, yet – he feels more himself.

“You will make contact with Demir today.” It’s barely a question, in Peril’s mouth. He does not look up from his book.

“Yes. He’ll introduce us to Nazif.”

“Watch him, with Gaby.”

“I know, Peril.” Napoleon sits on the edge of his bunk and pulls on his shoes, tying the laces with small, exact movements. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.” He nearly adds, _for you._

*

At breakfast, Gaby reads the newspaper, laid flat on the table next to her plate of scrambled eggs. Peril’s ring still adorns her finger, though it plays the part of Napoleon’s now.

“Sven’s pining to see you, darling,” says Napoleon, over the rim of his coffee cup.

She glances up, gaze sharp. “Of course. Such bad luck, him getting flu just before the trip. He was so looking forward to the Orient Express.”

“Well I know what you Swedes are like, darling. Running naked in the snow, and so on. But he’s a bit bored, now the fever has passed. If you could drop in on him, maybe read to him for a while. Cheer him up. Your poor brother.”

She gives him a smile with several cutting edges. “And your compartment?” she asks. “Mine is very comfortable.”

“Mine would be much better if not shared with a mountain of grumpy – Swede.”

“Well, darling,” she returns. “In Istanbul we will have our own room. God knows it can’t do any more harm now.”

Napoleon purses his lips, and finishes his coffee. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

*

Napoleon returns to the compartment to pick up a more sensitive listening device before the meet with Demir. Peril is stretched full-length on the floor, shirtless, doing one-handed press-ups.

Napoleon takes his time to survey the picture before him – those long legs splayed, the muscles of Peril’s scarred back shifting and bunching, the light glow of sweat on pale skin that tells him he’s been exercising for a while – then clears his throat.

“Sorry, Peril. Just here to pick up that bug. If you want to hear what happens at this meeting, that is.”

With a grunt, Peril lowers himself to the floor, then stands with a sinuous movement that uses the motion of the train in its favour. There isn’t much room in the compartment, with the two of them; he folds himself back into his seat at the desk, waiting for Napoleon to fetch what he came for and depart. He takes up his book again.

“What are you reading?” asks Napoleon, partly because he wants to know, and partly because it’s evident Peril has no interest in talking.

Peril sighs, slightly, and tips the cover towards him.

“Sholokhov? You really are red to the core, Peril.”

No response. Napoleon sighs, slipping the bug into his collar, pinning it carefully in place. He checks his appearance in the bathroom mirror.

“Here I go.”

“Don’t fuck it up, Cowboy.” It’s said quietly, as Napoleon reaches for the door handle.

*

The meeting goes smoothly, for the most part; their contact agrees to introduce them to Nazif on arrival in Istanbul, and to procure them certain things which might be useful. By the time Napoleon gets back to their compartment, Peril has produced an almost-complete set of shorthand notes for the meeting, which they will eventually type up and submit with the report.

Gaby comes back with him, and starts a game of chess with the Russian giant, kicking off her shoes.

The compartment is far too small for three. Napoleon excuses himself and makes for the bar, where he nurses a double Scotch and reads the newspaper, taken on fresh at Vienna.

He feels too old to play gooseberry; and yet he finds himself curiously uninterested when a slim, redheaded beauty asks to borrow the fashion section. She even suggests that they could finish reading the paper in bed, but he just smiles and – with appropriate expressions of regret – tells her his fiancée will be coming to find him soon.

He finishes his whisky and orders another, drinking it very slowly before returning to the compartment to dress for dinner.

*

That night, Napoleon skims lightly through sleep, and when the nightmare comes again he knows it’s a dream, even while he’s trapped within it. It doesn’t help: he watches Illya suffer, and tries to remain silent, caught somewhere between two worlds.

When Peril wakes him, there are tears clumped in Napoleon’s wet lashes – hidden, he hopes, by the dark.

“Nightmare, Cowboy.” Peril settles his bedding down on the floor next to Napoleon’s bunk, with spare, economic movements seen in flashes of silver moonlight.

“I tried not to speak,” says Napoleon. His breath feels constricted.

“I know.” Illya’s voice is flat, calm. “Breathing sounded bad.”

Napoleon doesn’t know how to answer. He wants the light, he wants to go along to the bar and drink and find that redhead he’d turned down; spend the rest of the night making her feel good.

They’re quiet for a minute or two.

“When did you start playing chess?” asks Napoleon, at last.

“At lake resort in Ukraine. Aged seven.”

It’s more detail than Napoleon had been expecting. _So his family were privileged enough for that. It must have been a startling change, when his father was taken away._

“Who taught you?”

“My grandfather. He was not interested in bathing. He loved chess.”

It’s a strange word on the Russian’s lips, _love._ Napoleon wonders if Gaby’s heard it before.

“Never been any good at it. Not strategic enough.”

“And yet you are able to plan your criminal activities, Cowboy. You mean you are not sufficiently disciplined.”

“For someone who’s nicknamed _me_ Cowboy, you really do ride me relentlessly, Peril.” In silence, he enjoys his own double entendre. _He’s probably never heard of sex between men. Not the Russian way._

“You take nothing seriously.”

“So far, Peril, I’ve found life to be composed mostly of war and the threat of death. After a while, one begins to find comfort in the absurd.”

There’s no answer to that. The train rumbles over a set of points, rocking slowly onwards through the night.

“You had no hobbies, as child?”

“Baseball. I was very good at baseball.”

“How American of you, Cowboy.”

“That sounds like an insult, when you say it.”

Illya makes his small huff of amusement in the dark, and Napoleon can’t help the wide grin that spreads across his face.

“You should sleep.” Peril yawns as he says it.

“Read to me from your Sholokhov. Can’t think of anything better to send me off to sleep than some stolid socialist realism.”

“You are extremely offensive.”

“You knew that already, Peril,” says Napoleon, smiling as he turns away, towards the wall.

*

Napoleon wakes before his alarm, and only slowly realises that it must have been Peril getting up that woke him. The shower is running.

Peril’s book lies on his pillow, suggesting that he had been awake for a while before getting out of bed. Idly, Napoleon leans over and takes it up. He’s read _And Quiet Flows the Don_ before, of course, but he’s got a few empty minutes before he can get in the bathroom. He flicks to the opening page –

_They walked and walked and sang ‘Memory Eternal’, and whenever they stopped, the singing seemed to be carried on by their feet, the horses, the gusts of wind._

He blinks, and flicks through; turns his wrist to look at the cover again.

The bathroom door opens, and Peril emerges with a towel wrapped around his hips.

Napoleon looks up; swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He raises an eyebrow and holds up the book. “Peril, this isn’t –”

The look in Peril’s eyes takes him entirely by surprise. Napoleon had expected fury at the appropriation of one of his possessions, but instead Peril’s eyes widen so that he looks – _scared._ The Russian agent throws out his hand in a quick, instinctive gesture.

_Does the KGB have him bug himself, too?_

“– literature,” finishes Napoleon, lamely.

Peril’s eyes close for a moment, and he takes a breath. “I do not think you would know literature if it punched you in the teeth, Cowboy.” When his eyes open again, they are light with grateful relief.

“Agree to disagree, Peril.” Napoleon gives him a toothy grin and sits up; stretches and gets out of bed. He puts the disguised copy of _Doctor Zhivago_ carefully into Peril’s hands on his way to the bathroom.

*

They stop that day at Budapest and then Belgrade. Napoleon walks slowly up and down the train, keeping watch and avoiding his compartment, where Gaby and Peril are once again playing chess.

_The same kind of mind,_ he thinks, leaning against the wall of the luggage carriage. He watches the countryside roll past in stark, unforgiving beauty.

Her innocence and delicate beauty mixed with steely determination; his strength and powerful urge to protect her. Their instinctive mutual understanding, having both grown up behind the Iron Curtain. _Made for each other._

He rubs his eyes, and pushes his hands into his pockets.

*

Over dinner, Napoleon and Gaby test one another on their cover for the next few days.

As they finish the meal with a very acceptable Cognac, Gaby fixes him with a look. “I do not know how Sven is not going mad, alone in the compartment.”

Napoleon shrugs. “He’s not alone that much. And I’m quite sure he prefers it to _my_ company.”

Gaby gives him a strange look, then sighs and stares out of the window. “Another Cognac, perhaps.”

_Although their drinking habits couldn’t be more different,_ he thinks, signalling to the waiter.

*

When Napoleon gets into bed, Peril is in the bathroom; but his bed has already been tidily set up on the floor. The mis-covered copy of _Doctor Zhivago_ lies on his pillow again.

Peril nods slightly at Napoleon as he emerges from the bathroom, wearing just his pyjama bottoms. Napoleon tries not to be caught staring at that broad, muscled chest.

“You got your dinner?” asks Napoleon, through a somewhat artificial yawn.

“Yes. Commissionaire is curious, though, I think.”

“Oh well, let him be.” Napoleon shrugs. “As far as any of them know, you’re Sven, my Swedish brother-in-law-to-be with the flu. No need for you to talk. Why are you reading it in English?” he adds quickly, as though hoping Peril won’t notice the change of subject.

Peril moves as though to look at him, then does not. “Was what the bookstore had,” he says, at length. “In Rome.” He folds himself onto the mattress, kneeling first as if to pray. He lies down on his front.

Napoleon turns out the light, allowing himself one more glance at the pale skin of Peril’s shoulders before it can only be viewed in silver-lined glimpses.

“You’ve read it before, in Russian?” asks Napoleon, in the dark.

“Only in…” Peril pauses; stops. Napoleon hears the unspoken word: _samizdat._

_He really is afraid of who might be listening._ “Well, I’ve only read it in translation, myself,” he says, airily, as though no break in the conversation had occurred. “So no doubt I’ve missed all the true gems of the socialist realist art.” He allows the condescending sarcasm to drip unchecked from his words.

“Oh yes, Cowboy? And what would you recommend instead? American books, of course. Spies and explosions and shopping.”

“Your _life_ is composed of spies and explosions, Peril. And it would certainly do you some good to go shopping. Your clothes almost give me a rash just looking at them. I hope you never get set on fire. You’d go up like Joan of Arc.” _But you know more about women’s fashion than any other man I’ve met._

“Ah, yes, the American’s answer to everything. Acquisition.” His tone is stony, but there’s no real fire behind it. “You think good KGB agent should dress as you do, yes? Finely-tailored suits to flaunt both the wealth and the body.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen in the darkness. He doesn’t breathe for a moment, but then the additional import behind the words comes to him: _a good KGB agent._

“Taste and looks get you everywhere, Peril.”

“Money is nothing. Body is nothing. Even the mind is of use only in service of safety of the country.”

Napoleon purses his lips, staring up at the wooden bunk above him. _Does he truly believe that?_

“‘The whole world listens, ready to weep / At my words of my beautiful land’,” he murmurs, at last.

“I have never heard this,” returns Illya, after a moment. His accent is strong, in his agitation; but there is none of the fretful hostility that often characterises their conversations.

“I thought you wouldn’t have.” There’s a long, full silence, during which neither of them seems to breathe much.

“We arrive tomorrow,” says Peril, quietly. “At hotel before lunch, yes?”

Napoleon turns away. “Yes. Goodnight, Illya.”

*

The nightmare changes, that night. Illya dies in the chair, unprepared to fight after hearing the news that Gaby has betrayed him. Napoleon watches it, skimming just beneath the surface of consciousness, and keeps an iron grip on his reactions.

He wakes, with nothing more than a gasp, early. Taking his washbag, he moves silently around Illya’s still-sleeping form. Emerging suited and immaculately shaven from the bathroom, he goes early to breakfast, reads the newspaper and drinks several cups of coffee before Gaby joins him.

Later, as the three of them descend from the train, Illya affects sunglasses and a scarf, in deference to the flu he is supposedly only just recovering from. Gaby looks stunning in her Mary Quant dress and cream bow-fronted blouse; her pointed spike heels make her a little taller, but still she looks delicately tiny next to Illya as he hands her from the carriage. “Thank you, Sven,” she says, flattening her accent a little towards Swedish. “Chuck – oh, Chuck, älskling, my case – I am afraid the porter will not –”

Napoleon places a calming hand on her waist, and plays up his American accent. “Stop worrying, darling. With the tip I gave him, he knows exactly what he’s taking where.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Illya straighten his shoulders and look away when he places his hand on Gaby’s waist. _But what can I do? We’re supposed to be engaged._ He sighs and steps back. “I’ll go and find us a taxi.”

*

The hotel is plush, the kind two wealthy foreign businessmen and their beloved fiancée/sister might be expected to frequent. Their rooms are on the same floor, this time, joined by a connecting door. A small double bedroom for Illya, and a larger suite with two twin beds for Napoleon and Gaby.

Illya’s jaw is tight when Gaby opens the connecting door between their rooms. “You want double bed?” he asks her, quietly, motioning to the room behind him. He glances quickly at Napoleon as he says it.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “I assure you, Peril, her _virtue_ is quite safe with me.”

Illya’s face settles into its habitual sullen scowl. “You make no secret of your – appetites, Cowboy. I would not blame her for being scared.”

“Scared?” says Napoleon, squaring his shoulders and taking a small step closer.

_“Scared?”_ screeches Gaby. “Of _Solo?”_ She snorts, then laughs, bent double, for almost a full minute. Finally she brushes past Peril, wiping her eyes. “Thanks for the room. And the laugh.” She shuts the door in Peril’s frowning face.

Napoleon turns away, anger a tight fist in the centre of his chest. He takes his washbag out of his suitcase and retires to the palatial bathroom for a long, steaming-hot bath.

*

When he emerges, Peril is sunk deep in concentration over a chess game, frowning at the board. Napoleon straightens his tie in the mirror near the door and heads directly out to begin checking in with the contacts Waverly had given him – building a picture of himself as a CIA courier agent with a thin veneer of disguise as a businessman.

The agents had been briefed in advance, so there’s no fuss. Afterwards, Napoleon meanders to a café; takes a table outside and orders a hot, sugared coffee. It arrives at the same time as Peril takes the seat opposite.

“Still bugging me?” Napoleon asks, distantly.

“It saved your life.” Peril sounds agitated.

“How’s that Swedish accent coming along, Sven?”

Peril sighs, catches the waiter’s eye and orders a cup of whatever Napoleon’s having with an angry jab of his finger. He leans across the table, voice hardly more than a whisper. “I – am sorry, okay. I apologise.”

Napoleon has to admit he hadn’t expected that. He feels himself blink. “I’m sorry for what I said about your mother.” It’s said before he has time to consider.

Peril bites his lip and sits back in his chair. Neither of them speaks. Peril’s coffee arrives.

“You’ll have to be able to look at her like a brother.” Napoleon narrows his eyes against the sun, looking across the square. He holds up a hand when Peril opens his mouth to speak. “I have no interest in her, except as a bright person and competent agent. There’s no need for concern.”

Peril says nothing for a minute, then he frowns. “She is very beautiful,” he says, quietly.

“Yes.” Napoleon swallows down a gulp of his bittersweet coffee. “Still.” He doesn’t say anything else.

They finish their drinks in silence.

“I should get back to the hotel,” says Napoleon, at last. “And doubtless you have errands to run.” He saunters away, looking around him with somewhat exaggerated nonchalance.

*

Gaby and Illya order an early dinner on room service. Gaby insists they speak Russian, most of the time, since she is learning; otherwise, they try out small Swedish phrases, and practice Illya’s accent.

Napoleon finds it all suddenly quite sickeningly domestic. He heads to the bar, where he also has a light dinner, though no alcohol. The bartender flirts lightly with him, and they trade quips back and forth; but Napoleon keeps Chuck’s engagement ring in sight, and in truth he’s in such a foul mood he could do without the interruption.

After dinner, he goes back to the suite. Gaby and Illya are playing chess; she’s put her pyjamas on, and her bare feet rest, crossed at the ankle, on Illya’s knee. Napoleon quickly averts his eyes, and pretends he hasn’t noticed.

He changes his suit and tie; straps on his gun under the jacket and makes ready to leave. “Meeting with Demir for the introduction to Nazif,” he says quietly, as he puts on his shoes. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Gaby and Illya look up, surprised.

“Tonight?” asks Gaby.

Napoleon shrugs. “You heard him, on the train. He thinks Nazif will be at the club he usually goes to on Saturday nights. He said he’d see me there.”

“I’ll get ready.” Gaby frowns at him, annoyed with his attempt to act alone.

Napoleon holds up a hand. “No need. Fits my cover better to go alone. They’ll test me, see what I can be tempted to when I’m not with my fiancée.” He shrugs. “Sven’s still sleeping off the flu, and you’re tired after a long train trip. I’ve gone out to let off steam at the tables and make some useful contacts.”

“You should not go alone.” Peril says it heavily. He doesn’t make eye contact. “I will tail you.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “No thanks, Peril. You’re bound to be noticed, a head taller than everyone else in the room. You’d only hamper the conversation if I do get to talk to Nazif. And why would my brother-in-law come to the same club as me, but not speak to me? Makes no sense.”

Peril’s jaw tightens. “You wear bug.” Gaby’s feet fall from his knee as he fetches his suitcase and picks out the sensitive listening device Napoleon had worn to speak to Demir on the train. “Under collar. As last time.”

Napoleon sighs long-sufferingly, but takes the bug anyway, managing not to flinch at the light brush of Illya’s fingers over his own. _It’s not as though you two are exactly going to be listening,_ he thinks as he pins it in place.

*

It all goes well, until –

Until Nazif gets Napoleon alone.

They’ve talked; Napoleon – American accent strong – has given him the story about how his fiancée’s pregnant, and won’t settle for anything less than the white-picket-fence American Dream. How he wishes, sometimes, that settling down wasn’t such an expensive endeavour. How it’s difficult for a travelling – _businessman,_ like him, to get together the necessary –

At the poker table, Nazif leans close; breath heavy with whisky, he tells him that he has a lot of contacts, useful people, people who will pay good money for information. Does Chuck’s business involve any – information? Anything that might be useful?

Napoleon blinks, playing the part of the naïf agent who’s never been bribed before. _That moment of indecision, that delicate play of concern and regret_ –

And then Nazif leans in closer still, and murmurs that of course, usually, there’s an initial cost to these arrangements. But since Mr Mayer needs his money, just now, there is another option – his hand finds Chuck’s knee under the table – another way they might show their commitment to the matter.

Napoleon’s stomach dissolves, and he suppresses his urge to lean away, to stand up and get Nazif’s hand off his knee. Nonsensically, the image of Gaby’s feet on Illya’s knee flashes across his mind. He swallows, and forces his lips into a small, knowing smile. He ducks his head and looks up at Nazif through his eyelashes. “Tomorrow?” he asks, quietly. “Late? I need to get back to my fiancée now, and we’ve a full day planned. She’ll be tired, afterwards.”

Nazif smiles, eyes dark with pleasure. He pats Napoleon on the knee. “Very well. Meet here at ten tomorrow.”

_He’s not the worst-looking I’ve had to seduce,_ thinks Napoleon, trying to suppress his grimace as he leaves the club.

*

Back in the suite, Gaby and Illya watch him with wide eyes.

“You heard, then,” says Napoleon sardonically. “He did us the favour of leaning in nice and close for the tape.”

“Not tape,” says Illya automatically, gesturing to his shorthand notes; but Napoleon knows he’s not _trying_ to be annoying this time. The Russian looks pale and confused.

_Yep. Not the Russian way._

Fastidiously, Napoleon turns away and hangs up his jacket; places the listening device in front of Peril at the desk. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” he says, tiredly.

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, Gaby has retreated to her room. Illya is wearing pyjama bottoms and pacing back and forth, waiting to use the bathroom. The shorthand transcription still lies on the desk.

When Illya comes to bed, Napoleon already has his eyes closed and his lamp off. He listens to the sounds of the tall Russian attempting to get comfortable in the small twin bed; waits for the darkness that comes when Illya switches off his bedside lamp too.

There’s a seemingly-interminable silence. Neither of them are asleep; he can hear it in the Russian’s breathing.

“Cowboy?” his voice is low, unhappy-sounding.

Napoleon weighs up whether to answer; but Illya’s too good an agent not to know he’s awake.

“Peril.”

“There is no need for – this. We will report it to Waverly. And search their offices tomorrow. Sunday. Probably unattended.”

Napoleon squeezes his eyes closed in the darkness. “Yes, thank you Peril. I made the appointment just in case. Wouldn’t do to offend him, now would it?” He keeps his tone as light as he can.

“This happens – often, to you?” asks Illya, unhappily.

“By ‘this’…” Napoleon knows he’s being annoying, but for God’s sake. _He’s so appalled by the prospect of sex between men that the coercive aspects are passing him right by._

“Propositions. Of this kind.” Peril sounds like he’s forcing the words out. “I knew about Victoria Vinciguerra, of course –”

Napoleon feels a hot wave of anger run slowly down his spine. He lets it settle, then keeps his voice steady. “You think I like fucking Nazis and traitors?”

The silence between them is shocked, as though he’s dealt Illya a slap.

“She was – I thought –” he’s never heard Peril as off-balance as this.

“Some people are so twisted inside they can never be beautiful, Peril.” He says it with total finality, and gets a painful, stinging pleasure from the sharp intake of breath he hears in the darkness.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

*

Illya makes a report to Waverly first thing in the morning.

Breakfast is an awkward affair. They order it to the suite, and sit at the table together. For the most part, Napoleon allows Illya and Gaby to talk, discussing the day’s news in halting Russian.

“So what is the plan for the day?” asks Gaby, at last.

“We need to appear as tourists. We can go as a three,” returns Napoleon. “Later we’ll come back to the hotel and Peril and I will slip out, get over to Nazif’s offices and do some digging.”

It’s a long morning of sightseeing. The heat is oppressive, and they are all on edge with one another. Napoleon touches Gaby as little as politely possible, given that she is supposed to be his fiancée. He doesn’t need to provoke the Russian bear any more than he already has.

They find a small, touristy café for lunch and sit outside, making themselves visible, playing up to their roles. Illya spends most of the time reading a guidebook, so that he doesn’t have to talk. He and Napoleon don’t look at one another.

After lunch, they make their way slowly back to the hotel, Gaby yawning loudly and talking about needing a nap. She casts several significant glances at Napoleon, which make Illya scowl and look quickly away. Napoleon plays up to it enough to make it look real, sinking into the part of the puppyish American pleased to be taken to bed by his fiancée, excited by the foreign concept of a siesta and sex.

He and Illya move around one another in silence in the suite, dressing for invisibility. Napoleon musses his hair and dresses as a clueless American tourist, poorly-cut trousers and nasty, oversized shirt. Illya just dresses in black, though not a turtleneck. Admittedly, it’s a better look than most of his.

Napoleon points to the address in the file they’d been given. “Split up. Meet here in half an hour?”

Illya just nods, slipping his gun into the small of his back. He checks his watch, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes flick to Napoleon’s.

Napoleon turns away, heart missing a beat.

*

There’s a back door in a stinking alley at the side of the office, which is actually just a dilapidated-looking townhouse.

_Suppose he’s not that bothered about appearances, in his trade. Bet his home’s a fair bit fancier than this though._ He swallows, wondering if he’s going to find out tonight.

They move smoothly, as a team. Napoleon breaks them in, using his picks; Illya leads the way, covering them from the front. They find Nazif’s office with no trouble, the only room set up with one desk. The others are all shared.

They search methodically through papers and documents; Illya takes photographs of anything that could prove useful. Napoleon begins working on the safe, which shouldn’t cause him problems. It’s old, ornate and satisfyingly heavy, but easy to crack without even the aid of listening equipment.

They don’t speak a word. Back on the street, they nod briefly and go their separate ways back to the hotel.

*

In the late afternoon, Waverly calls them back. Illya had been developing photographs in the bathroom, but he emerges when the phone rings, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Napoleon can tell from the expectant silence behind him that Illya is listening intently to try and catch whatever’s said. He describes as many of the documents as they were able to identify during their search of the offices, and promises a sheaf of images once Illya has developed them.

“Well, Solo. It seems to me we could do with keeping him on side. Are you prepared to go along tonight? String him along?” Waverly says it lightly, but they both know what he really means. Napoleon’s heart sinks.

“Of course, sir.”

“And please do arrange a courier drop of those photographs as soon as possible. The address was included in the file.”

“Yes sir.”

Behind him, Napoleon hears a snapping sound and a slight gasp of pain.

When he hangs up, he finds that Illya has broken one of his glass chess pieces, snapped cleanly in two in his palm, blood welling gently from beneath it.

Napoleon takes a step towards the bathroom, then remembers it’s currently a darkroom. He gestures helplessly towards it. “Can I go in?”

“I will do it.” Illya frowns, and shuts himself in the bathroom.

Gaby comes through from her bedroom. “What did Waverly say?”

Napoleon swallows. “The meeting’s still on tonight.”

Gaby purses her lips and raises her eyebrows. “Where’s Illya?”

“Bathroom.” Napoleon nods towards it. “Developing photographs.”

“I’ll come with you tonight.”

Napoleon shrugs. He hopes it looks less helpless than it feels. “There is no need. You would have to leave, after – after a certain point.”

“One of us _will_ come with you, Solo. You get yourself in trouble far too easily.” She sounds steely, and he doesn’t contradict.

*

Illya tails him, in the end, because nothing Napoleon can say makes any impression whatsoever on his stubborn, flint-faced silence.

Napoleon has to admit, his height may be against him, but Peril’s actually pretty good at changing the general impression he gives out. A rounded hunch of his shoulders, mussed hair and wide eyes; he’s suddenly unsure, a tourist in an unfamiliar city, heading to a rather seedy bar to experience – whatever there may be to experience.

He’s already at the club by the time Napoleon arrives, leaning against the bar, nursing a whisky. Napoleon’s gut twists when he sees a beautiful, brown-haired woman engage him in conversation. She’s significantly taller than Gaby, and Napoleon has no notion than Illya will succumb to her charms, but he turns his back all the same, concentrating on poker, on playing the game with Nazif, who catches his eye across the room.

Napoleon smiles, his expression a delicate mix of nerves and excitement.

Nazif places his hand in the small of Napoleon’s back, a warm touch that seems to burn through his shirt. He’s not wearing a wire; it hadn’t even been discussed, the uncomfortable knowledge that nakedness was a probability uppermost in all their minds. He had allowed Illya to place trackers on him more thoroughly than he usually would, however.

In the end, Nazif whispers that he has a hotel room a few doors down, just waiting for them. _I suppose he has a wife at home,_ thinks Napoleon incongruously. _Children._ The thought seems outlandish, somehow.

He governs his expressions carefully, giving out only a suppressed eagerness, a humming nervous excitement.

_I wonder if he thinks he’s taking my cherry with a man._ He forces the thought away, finding it disproportionately revolting.

There’s a sick inevitability about it all that almost bores him, even at the same time as it disgusts him. The hotel is superficially luxurious, but rather shabby when you look at the details. The champagne Nazif opens is sub-par, and Napoleon has to fight away a miserable smirk: _is this his first time blackmailing someone for sex? Maybe I’m taking his cherry._

They stand by the window, drinking the nasty champagne and watching the lights of the city by night. Napoleon does not press for information at this stage, not wanting to spook Nazif. He judges it best to keep up his act of a first-time traitor, unsure how to conduct business. Especially in case Nazif notices anything out of place at his office the next day.

When Nazif opens the windows onto the balcony, Napoleon steps out, taking a breath of the hot night air, absorbing the sounds of the city: almost-incessant car horns, even at this time of night; ambulance sirens; chattering, shouts and laughter from the street below; even, through it all, the soft background hum of the crickets in the trees.

He tops up Nazif’s champagne. The man’s breath smells of whisky already, and a tiny, unreasonably-hopeful part of Napoleon thinks of escape through drunken stupor.

It won’t happen. The best he can hope for is that the man is selfish in bed – comes quickly and goes to sleep, without any attempt to reciprocate.

When Nazif kisses him, he makes sure to respond enthusiastically. He hopes that’s what the man wants – after all, what some of them want is the power trip, the enjoyment of forcing someone to do it against their will. Nazif seems to be enjoying himself, though, crowding Napoleon close against the balcony railing, his warm hands straying lower down Napoleon’s – _Chuck’s_ – back.

“Won’t we be seen?” whispers Napoleon breathily, between kisses. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

Nazif chuckles. “Your first time with a man, Mr Mayer?” he asks. He holds out his hands, gesturing across the city. “What we are doing is perfectly legal.”

Napoleon sighs. “There was one time, in college…my – my buddy, Hank, he – I mean, he was _really_ drunk – he kissed me –”

“Who could resist,” says Nazif, in a manner that might have been greasily charming several drinks ago, if unaccompanied by the warm hand caressing Napoleon’s buttock.

Napoleon fights a grimace. “I mean – it never went further than that –”

Nazif tucks in his chin, grinning happily. “You have a whole new world before you, Mr Mayer.”

Napoleon can’t take much more of this. He looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Shall we…go inside?” he asks, as though it’s the only thing he wants in the world. _Suck him,_ he thinks. _Then insist on taking a shower and hope he’s fallen asleep by the time I return._

Nazif grips him round the waist and draws him into the room. They stumble round the bed, Napoleon subtly resisting being drawn down onto it. He pushes Nazif against the wall near the bathroom; not forcefully, but with enthusiasm. He goes down on his knees and looks up, eyes telegraphing excitement and a rather puppyish eagerness.

Nazif laughs, a little too loudly. “By all means.” Napoleon can tell he enjoys the expression; enjoys his own knowledge of it. The man’s cock is a hard rod in his poorly-cut trousers.

He reaches slowly towards Nazif’s belt buckle, and he’s relieved to find a cold determination he recognises welling inside him. It’s like being a different person, and it’s always got him through before. It’s been in painfully short supply since he found himself brought together with his new teammates.

_Don’t think about what tonight will be like; Peril’s judgemental silence in the darkness._

_Very much not the Russian way._

When Nazif lists to the side and crashes to the floor, Napoleon just blinks.

Someone wearing black peels out of the shadows of the darkened bathroom.

Napoleon blinks again. “What did you do to him, Peril?” he asks, with the best impression of tired resignation he can muster.

“Sleeping drug,” says Illya, tucking a small needle away in his pocket, “in neck.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow; looks slowly down at the crumpled form of Nazif, then back up at Illya. “He’ll know.”

“No.” Illya shakes his head, lips a stubborn pressed line. “He will sleep peacefully –” he prods contemptuously at Nazif with his shoe, “– until morning. We will arrange the room. Will be fine.”

Napoleon sighs long-sufferingly and pushes up to standing. He can’t seem to breathe, quite; his belly floods with relief. He could almost cry with it.

“We have much to do.” Illya hauls Nazif up to stand as though his weight means nothing, and dumps him on the bed. When Napoleon leans over to start removing the man’s clothes, Illya holds up a hand. “Bathroom,” he says. “Make towel wet as if you showered before leaving. Run shower. Use toothpaste. Move items.”

Slowly, Napoleon takes a step back, and goes into the bathroom. He makes his way mechanically through the steps Illya had described, using products or pouring some of them away. As he mocks it up, he wishes he could really take a shower, get clean. _Back at the hotel,_ he promises himself silently.

When he returns, Nazif is lying naked on his side in bed, sheet draped across his waist. His clothes are strewn around the room, as though discarded by an eager lover.

“On side. If he vomits, he will not die. Drunkard.” Illya says it bitterly. He points to the bedside table; the hotel notepad and pencil lies waiting. “You write note.”

As if in a trance, Napoleon does so.

**Thanks for opening my eyes to a whole new world. You know where to reach me.**

Illya checks his work in the bathroom, giving him a single satisfied nod. “We go.”

Walking away down the corridor, Napoleon wonders if he’s going mad. He could swear he’d felt Peril’s light touch on his back, ushering him out of the hotel room.

*

Napoleon showers, luxuriating in the heat of the water. He puts on his pyjamas, but still combs his hair back, parting it fastidiously. He brushes his teeth twice.

Emerging from the bathroom, he pads barefoot to his bed, and sits on the edge of it. He sets his alarm for the morning, and finally lies down, feeling bone-deep relaxation spread through him.

Illya gets up from his chess set, and goes quietly into the bathroom.

Napoleon lies on his back, doing nothing. He listens to the flush of the toilet, the running of the shower, the brushing of teeth. He turns out his lamp, and expects to fall asleep, but doesn’t.

Illya closes the bathroom door carefully behind himself. He lies down on his front, in bed, and takes up his book; opens it to continue reading. He clears his throat.

Napoleon looks over at him, heart plummeting. “What about –”

“In toilet cistern,” Illya’s voice is deadpan, “signal is not always good.”

Napoleon laughs; he can’t help it. _Peril. Illya._ He turns on his side, watching as the Russian starts to read, profile outlined against the lamplight behind him.

_“…I’ll write your memory into an image of aching tenderness and sorrow. I’ll stay here till this is done, then I too will go. This is how I will portray you, I’ll trace your features on paper as the sea, after a fearful storm has churned it up, traces the form of the greatest, farthest-reaching wave on the sand. Seaweed, shells, cork, pebbles, the lightest, most imponderable things that it could lift from its bed, are cast up in a broken, sinuous line on the sand. This line endlessly stretching into the distance is the frontier of the highest tide. That was how life’s storm cast you up on my shore, O my pride, that is how I’ll portray you._

_He went in, locked the door behind him, and took off his coat. When he went into the bedroom, which Lara had tidied up so well and so carefully that morning and which her hurried packing had again turned inside out, when he saw the disarranged bed and the things thrown about in disorder on the chairs and floor, he knelt down like a little boy, leaned his breast against the hard edge of the bedstead, buried his head in the bedclothes, and wept freely and bitterly as children do. But not for long. Soon he got up, hastily dried his face, looked around him with tired, absent-minded surprise, got out the bottle of vodka Komarovsky had left, drew the cork, poured half a glass, added water and snow, and with a relish almost equal in strength to the hopelessness of the tears he had shed drank long, greedy gulps._

_Something unaccountable was going on in Yurii Andreievich. He was slowly losing his mind. Never before had he led such a strange existence. He neglected the house, he stopped taking proper care of himself, he turned night into day and had lost count of time since Lara had left…”_

Illya’s voice is soft and even, his accent almost imperceptible. Napoleon drifts into sleep.

*

“Hey, Cowboy.” Napoleon wakes only when Illya gently shakes his shoulder. “Coffee is here.”

“Hmm?” Napoleon starts awake, then rubs his eyes. _What happened to my alarm?_ “Illya.”

“Yes?” There’s a little surprise in his tone.

“What do we tell Waverly?”

“I have made report. And sent photographs.”

Napoleon yawns and stretches. “What did he say?”

“Was not prepared to admit he sold you like meat to Nazif. Coward.” Illya’s voice drips disdain. “We wait and see if Nazif suspects. Wait for instructions after Waverly receives photographs.”

Always tall, standing next to the bed Illya towers over him. For some reason, Napoleon has no desire to stand, to even out their heights. He just looks up, and smiles. “Thank you, Peril.” He’s totally sincere.

For a moment, Illya’s eyes look into his, as wide, innocent and gentle as a boy’s. Then he turns away. “You need coffee, Cowboy,” he says over his shoulder, heading for the door.

*

They eat breakfast together. Napoleon wears his pyjamas, bathrobe and slippers. He leaves his hair and stubble a mess.

Emphatic, he makes Gaby translate the newspaper headlines into Russian. Illya smiles, and helps her.

After breakfast, Illya plays chess with himself. Napoleon reads _Doctor Zhivago,_ lying on the sofa. Gaby sits next to him with her Russian primer, muttering to herself in German occasionally. After a while, she starts to stroke his hair. He falls asleep.

They don’t disturb him until after lunch.

He takes a bath; and then Chuck goes for a walk with his fiancée and his brother-in-law, buying cheap tourist tat, baklava and Turkish delight.

Back at the hotel room, Illya eats four pieces of pistachio Turkish delight, licking icing sugar from his fingers as he studies his chessboard. He glances up and Napoleon looks away, stepping out onto the balcony to enjoy the evening sun, chest tight with breaths he takes suddenly, all at once.

*

Illya uses the bathroom second, and shuts the door behind himself when he emerges.

Napoleon, sitting on the edge of his bed, holds up his alarm clock. “Have you bugged this again? It didn’t go off this morning.”

Illya smiles a private little smile, and kneels in front of him. His hands lie flat and still on his thighs.

_Peril. Illya._ They breathe, slowly, looking at one another without fear.

Napoleon touches Illya’s chin, just the tips of two fingers, the pad of his thumb.

Illya kisses him, soft and slow, and then gone. Large, delicate hands at his waist, and then soft-steel flesh revealed out of silk – beautiful, pouting lips which open to admit him –

Illya sucks him, making needy little noises of his own, long lashes fluttering fair-haloed against the unexpected pink of his cheeks –

Large hands framing Napoleon’s hips, thumbs stroking silk and skin, and then a nudged encouragement to bury his fingers in mussed blond hair; tongue curling, flattening, flicking, until Napoleon can’t distinguish his own noises from those Illya makes.

“Illya –” he murmurs at last, and then urgently, “Illya – _Illya_ –” but he’s only sucked harder, pulled closer, wide-spaced fingerprints surely pressed red-deep into his hips –

He falls into it quite helplessly, watching a soft blue gaze through fanned lashes.

He’s not sure how many times he says his name.

Napoleon pulls at elbows, biceps, shoulders, pale and scarred. Urges him up, wants to take him too –

For a moment Illya’s eyes are round and blue and fearful, and then Napoleon’s fingers trace wonderingly the still-swollen flesh behind the need-spent stain.

He pushes away the navy cotton, and cleans him with his tongue.

They’re too old, and too large, to curl in one twin bed.

They do it anyway.

*

Napoleon wakes early, aching sleepily from not having turned over all night; no room, when you share your bed with a Russian giant.

The giant’s hand lies lightly on his hipbone, long fingers resting on his stomach, warm breath ghosting across his nape.

Napoleon smiles, and goes to take a shower. He extracts the small pot of lubricant he keeps in his washbag and slowly, carefully, he opens himself beneath the spray. He doesn’t make a sound. _You never know if the toilet cistern’s listening._

He only wears his bathrobe, when he returns to bed.

Illya’s awake, and maybe it’s Napoleon’s imagination, or maybe his closed expression hides his nervousness poorly.

Napoleon gets back into bed, and kisses him.

“Hmm.” It’s a deeply-content hum, a sound of relief and thanks and happiness all in one.

“Fuck me.”

Illya’s eyes widen in almost-comical surprise and his lips part; close; part again. “Cowboy –”

“Unless I got it wrong?” asks Napoleon, eyebrows rising. “I don’t mind, either way.”

Illya’s long finger strokes down his cheek. He swallows, eyelashes fluttering. “Neither do I, I – think,” he says, and the final word carries a lot of weight. Silently, his blue eyes beg for understanding.

Napoleon kisses his chest, his neck, his nipple. He tries to keep the ego-boost off his face, but clearly fails because Illya gives his quiet rumble of a laugh and combs his fingers through wet black curls.

Napoleon straddles him, and presses slowly down; sinking his teeth into Illya’s shoulder, into hard muscle. Long fingers stroke the nape of his neck.

“Cowboy? Not so fast – you will be hurt –”

Napoleon almost laughs. How to explain that he’d endure any level of pain for this? “No,” he gasps. “I prepared.”

Illya’s eyes darken. He sweeps his hand down Napoleon’s side. “I want to watch this, next time.”

Arousal flares hot and low in Napoleon’s belly, and he presses closer, further, unsure whose drumbeat pulse is driving him on.

At last he just pants against Illya’s neck, lost in the feeling of those hands at his hips, on his back, in his hair.

“You doing okay, Cowboy?”

“I’m doing okay, Peril.” He presses his lips to the spot in front of Illya’s ear.

He pulls back and _looks,_ fighting the urge to close his eyes. The long, silent moment is almost unbearable in its intimacy.

“Why me?” Illya’s voice is constricted, as though he either couldn’t force the words out, or couldn’t hold them in.

Napoleon leans down, interlacing their fingers, running the tip of his nose along the side of Peril’s. “Keen spirit of international cooperation?” he murmurs.

“Hmm.” Illya starts to laugh, properly, and Napoleon gasps, half-laughing, half-winded by the sensations inside –

“Sorry, Cowboy, sorry –” Illya laughs, and Napoleon bites down on his shoulder, finding again the tender red-marked place he’d bitten before. Illya hisses, and hitches his hips deliberately.

Napoleon groans and shifts his own hips, gauging how he’s adjusted to the thick length inside him.

Illya’s hands move to his hips, holding him close. He’s watching him, blue eyes sweetly hungry. His breath draws shallow, chest rising and falling.

Napoleon leans forward to kiss him, and groans against his lips as the sensation inside changes to mounting, welling pleasure. “Mmmf,” he breathes, and he feels Illya pull back just enough to look at him.

Tentatively, Illya rolls his hips.

_“Fuck,_ Peril,” he gasps, and Illya does it again. “More,” demands Napoleon. “Yes.”

“Should have known you would make me do all the work, Cowboy.”

Napoleon grins, and sucks a mark into Illya’s chest, nipping at it with his teeth. _“More.”_

Illya presses up, demanding kisses, pulling Napoleon down onto him with forceful need. His large hand moves tentatively until he touches Napoleon’s cock. Napoleon feels himself harden fully again in his soft palm.

The combination of sensations has him gasping, pressing down against the hardness inside him, pushing forward into the tantalising circle of Illya’s hand.

“Illya – _Illya_ –”

“Cowboy –” Illya gasps, his hips stilling. “Quiet –”

Napoleon groans. “Why – I thought you said –”

“Oh, no, I did not mean  –” Illya’s cheeks are pink, and his hair is a mess. “Do not say my name, please.” His blue eyes are full of shy fun; his lips pull at the corners, in a smile at his own weakness.

Napoleon huffs a laugh, and kisses him. “Peril,” he says, instead, very seriously. “Peril, Peril, Peril.” He kisses along his jawline, and bites his earlobe.

_Watching Illya Kuryakin admit to his arousal might just be a new weakness of mine._

Napoleon grinds down intently, his breath catching in a gasp as Illya starts to move his hand again. “Oh – yes –”

The building, welling pleasure inside him has Napoleon groaning, leaning his forehead against Illya’s temple. “Peril – I need –”

“You need?” Illya’s not trying to provoke. He kisses the corner of Napoleon’s mouth.

“Just – harder. More. Please.”

“If _you_ say please, львёнок, I know you mean it.”

Napoleon just groans again, because Illya’s hand tightens on his cock, stroking him faster, winding the tension and pleasure inside of him tighter, the focus of all his attention –

“You come for me, львёнок.” Illya thrusts up into him smoothly, rolling his hips, the sensation a wave.

Napoleon moans Illya’s name again and again as he comes, because he forgets not to; forgets everything except the man beneath him, the muscled chest striped with his come, the blue eyes watching him fall, full of the kind of wonder he’s not sure he’s ever seen.

Illya goes still and begins to shake, eyes closing, whispering broken words of Russian that Napoleon is too far gone to translate.

*

“You’ve never tried?” asks Napoleon, kissing Illya’s chest.

“No.”

“But you want to?”

Slowly, Illya nods. He bites his bottom lip.

“Not the Russian way?” asks Napoleon, with a half-smile.

“Not _my_ way,” says Illya, gently insistent. “Until now.”

“I’m very flattered, Peril. Although I don’t know if I should be offended that you opt for львёнок over my name.”

“Napoleon reminds me of dictator pig from _Animal Farm.”_

“My my, Peril, you really have been getting into those banned books, haven’t you? Perhaps you have a copy of _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ I could borrow?”

“You are scoundrel, Cowboy.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon kisses him, deeply. “Илюша.”

“Accent is terrible.” Illya’s cheeks are pink and his eyes bright.

“You know, Peril, I have an inkling that may – just _may_ – improve.”


End file.
